


Don't Dump Sherlock

by Aida



Series: Dump Your Fics With Care [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Another dump thing, Crack, Crossdressing, Multi, So many AUs, Tags and Such Up for change, so much crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aida/pseuds/Aida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random collection of ficlets. Beware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case of Hammy-J

**Author's Note:**

> This is another little dumping ground for me, and this time it's for a lot of the Sherlock works I never gotten around to finishing/Didn't want to finish/Thought they were so bad that they deserved not to be finished. Enjoy perusing my failures. Including this first one, where John was part of a band~

When people are young, they’re bound to do crazy things that they’ll look back on and feel absolutely mortified. Why did I do that to myself? Why did I think that was a good idea? Oh god, will my kids ever find out?

John was certainly one of those people. Yes, he was a good man now: a doctor who used to be in the army, wearing fluffy jumpers and only shooting people who did the unspeakable. Before that, though, it was an entirely different story. It wasn’t necessarily a dangerous life that he lead during that time, and not something he regretted entirely. However, he wasn’t too proud of it, either. He almost felt like he could’ve done it better, or just not have done it at all. 

He hadn’t even thought about it in years. The reason it re-entered his mind was because Sherlock had decided to stake his claim on John’s laptop and stowed it away in his room. That was what John suspected, anyway, since he looked everywhere else and it was nowhere to be seen. He knew Sherlock was out doing who knows what, so he had no qualms just walking into the man’s room to fetch it.

When he opened the door to Sherlock’s room, he saw his laptop on his bed, along with some other things. 

Near his laptop, John saw an old, tattered box that looked like it was on the brink of complete collapse. It was filled with obvious things that someone kept from the time they were a teen, or a young adult. Apparently, Sherlock was no exception, but John thought it would be filled with old newspapers and case files- not journals, rolled-up papers, cassette tapes, and an odd grungy t-shirt here and there. 

John’s curiosity instantly won over his desire to have his laptop, and he walked over to look at one of the cassette tapes that was left on the mattress and immediately went numb with shock.

The tape itself was an old recorded song from some strange indie band from back in the day. Some would call it grunge, but the band saw themselves as more of an experimental group that really laid it thick with their guitar riffs.

How did John know this? Well, he used to be in that band, and he was the one who did those guitar riffs. 

He always joked that he was a clarinet player for a stint back when he was a kid, but he never continued to say that he did that before he finally picked up a guitar. He preferred the way the thrumming strings felt against his fingertips to licking reed. His friends knew of it, and thought they’d bring him into their band. They had dreams of hitting it big, but they never did. Yes, they were popular in the underground, but the big leagues had no interest. Eventually, when life outside of the band was becoming more important, they called it quits and parted ways. It was around the time when John was midway through medical school and had plans in joining the army.

He just had no idea how close his old fans were, let alone thought that he was living with one. Then again, Sherlock was more likely following them for a case, appearing as a fan in order to catch a serial killer or drug dealer, and he just never got rid of it all. The man was a violinist for crying out loud; who played classical music, who _listened_ to classical music. 

John finally dropped the cassette and looked at the box, thrown at seeing a bundle of old photographs in the mess inside. He lifted it out and looked at the very first photo.

There he was.

He looked much different back then. He was thinner and paler, with his hair long and shaggy and more than confident in his torn shirt and trousers that were like second skin. He was much different now. Tan and somewhat muscular, with his hair cut short and face marred with worry and fatigue from the war. Did Sherlock even know that the man playing the guitar in that picture was the same man who followed him through London? Who made tea, wore jumpers, carried a gun and wrote a blog? Did he? 

Well, he had to at least have a clue. It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. Nothing could ever get past him, even something as old and embarrassing as being a member of an old underground band that he was forced to sit through.

Shaking his head, as if to erase the memories, he merely put the photos back into their box and scooped up his laptop. Even if he left it there, he was sure that Sherlock would know that John saw it. Whether by the way he greeted the man when he came through the door or how he drank his tea, Sherlock would know.

-

Sherlock did know, of course. When he finally walked in, he froze when he saw John typing away on his laptop. John didn’t even bother looking up until he realized that Sherlock didn’t move. When he did, he was a little thrown at how the consulting detective’s eyes widened slightly and a faint blush streaked his cheeks. John quirked an eyebrow, waiting for the man to finally stop staring and speak up.

“John.” 

“Sherlock.”

Said man fidgeted ever so slightly before finally taking off his coat and scarf. “Found your laptop.”

“Yes…” John said slowly, nodding, still not looking away as the man faced him again.

“Anything else you find interesting?” Sherlock quipped, and John was a bit surprised that he seemed to be _embarrassed_.

“Just some old cassette tapes, but I didn’t look too closely.” John replied, which was partially true.

Sherlock exhaled, seemingly from relief and he headed back towards his room through the kitchen.

John decided to close his laptop and wait for him to return. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. He was going to at least try to defend himself, explain the case he was working on, so on and so forth. Then possibly make a jab at John for what he used to do before becoming a doctor and shipping out to join the army.

Sherlock re-entered finally, with a cassette tape, the bundle of photos, and a grungy t-shirt. He tossed the cassette and photos at John and flashed the t-shirt, showing off the logo that used to be part of his band.

“Well?” He asked as John looked at the cassette tape, pleased at Sherlock’s choice. It was the song he was most proud of in making after all.

“I take it you worked a case that made you follow…” John trailed off, cringing inwardly. “The Scum of the Thames?”

Sherlock let out a sigh, and seemed exasperated. “Please, John.” He groused, taking a seat in his own chair. “You’ve worked with me long enough to have at least picked some things up. Observe…”

John sighed, staring at Sherlock as he seemed to fidget. John himself couldn’t really believe it.

“You were a fan?” He tried, fighting down the bubble of warmth that threatened to erupt in his chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, finally folding the shirt neatly and setting it aside. 

“You were actually a _fan_.” John repeated, still disbelieving, even when Sherlock glared at him. “You’re having me on.”

“Believe it or not, John. I had phases like the rest of the human race.” Sherlock said. “One of them was indeed enjoying the rare treasures that came from underground music.”

John fought the urge to be able to preen for once. Sherlock was a music snob, after all. For him to actually say he was a fan made the entire mess of his past seem less bad. 

“Any others?” John asked, staring down at the cassette tape. 

Sherlock scoffed. “No. They were the most tolerable.” He stated. “And it was only because of one man.”

Sherlock then rose, taking the bundle of photos and untying the band and rifling through them. The strange haze that went over his eyes as he stared at them twisted John’s chest.

“Let me guess. The lead singer?”

Because it was always the lead singer, and his friend Mitch was no exception. Out of all of them, he received the most attention, and the most groupies. John himself had a few, more than their drummer, but not by much, really. 

“Please.” Sherlock hissed. “The man’s lyrics were dreadfully boring, and he didn’t sing so much as scream.”

John laughed. “Don’t they all do that?”

“He was the worst.” Sherlock retorted, causing John to laugh harder, even at his old friend’s expense. “No, it wasn’t him.”

“Then who?” John asked. “Come on, Sherlock. You can tell me.”

Sherlock fidgeted some more, then finally revealed a photo to John that caused his breath to freeze in his lungs. It was a close-up of him, of John. He was sweaty and clearly exhausted, but still smiling. It was always like that, though. Playing the songs over and over, picking and strumming until his fingers were numb. The rush that came when whoever was listening cheered made up for all of it.

“He called himself Hammy-J.” Sherlock said, looking at the photo and grinning. “Terrible nickname, but he made the guitar seem like a truly wondrous instrument. Almost convinced me to give up the violin.”

“No…” John breathed, but Sherlock nodded. 

“I always wanted to meet him in person.” Sherlock continued. “Never did, though.”

“Couldn’t make it through?” John inquired, wondering why the brilliant man in front of him, who actually liked what he did, never once tried to approach him and say hello. He thought of all the times they could’ve met back then. All the time they could’ve spent together. 

But Sherlock snorted. “I wasn’t very different back then.” He explained. “I would’ve offended him in some way, like anyone else. It would have ruined them for me if that happened.”

“I don’t think so.” John said, knowing that he could’ve never been angry with him. Even back then, he knew he would’ve been amazed at what Sherlock could see and deduce. 

Sherlock scoffed. “Please, John. Not everyone is like you.”

And that’s when it hit him. Sherlock had no clue. He had absolutely _no idea_ that the Hammy-J in those photos was the John Watson sitting across from him. It took John aback just a bit. That he could hide this from Sherlock unknowingly. That he hadn’t connected the dots, even now.

Perhaps he could help with that. 

“Look…” John started. “Sherlock-.”

But John was cut off when Sherlock’s mobile rang. The man immediately stood, answering his phone and having an adamant conversation with Lestrade, apparently. As he did so, he scooped all the memorabilia that he had brought out and headed for his room. It left John stuck in his chair, letting out a sigh and getting ready to head out. 

Another time, John supposed. 

He just didn’t suppose that it was going to be later on that day.


	2. The Doctor and... Well, The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend visits John. And I mean a VERY old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I tried a Wholock once. This is actually a SECOND chapter of said Wholock, but I decided to post this chapter instead.

John had just got off his shift at the clinic, carrying the milk he bought at Tescos that they always seemed to run out of, when he went into the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson was there; just walking out of her own flat, and she seemed startled and relieved to see him.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson said. “I was just about to go up there!”

John wasn’t at all surprised. Mrs. Hudson, despite vehemently denying that she was their housekeeper, would always go up to their flat to leave food or tidy up. Sometimes, she would take the skull that sat on the mantel back down to her flat with her if Sherlock was being particularly rude or just to keep her company.

“You see, I just heard some noises up there.” Mrs. Hudson explained, pointing with her thumb. “I thought it was Sherlock, but he left for Bart’s five minutes ago.”

“What kind of noises?” John asked as he hung up his coat, now a little concerned.

“Oh, it’s hard to explain.” Mrs. Hudson muttered. “I thought it was some construction from the street or something, but I think I would’ve known…”

She continued to rattle as John started to feel a mix of dread and nervousness. ‘He couldn’t possibly…’ He thought. ‘Not after all this time…’

“Tell me, Mrs. Hudson.” John stated urgently, getting Mrs. Hudson’s full attention. “Did… did it sound kind of wheezy? Like someone was sick or something?”

He kind of hoped it didn’t, and he also kind of hoped it did. He just had mixed feelings about the entire thing. He hadn’t seen him in years. He gave up on him. All the times he needed him and he wasn’t there…

But recognition shown in his landlady’s eyes, and it hit him like a punch in the stomach. “Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly!” She cried. “But it was more mechanical, and-wait, John! John?”

“Don’t come up, Mrs. Hudson!” John called as he raced up the stairs. “I’ll take care of it!”

“Are you sure? Should I call Sherlock?” She called.

“Don’t bother!” John called, now standing outside the door to the flat. He steeled himself, adjusting his jumper, and opened the door…

… Only to be greeted by a big blue police box, one that he hadn’t seen in years.

“Had to park it right in the middle of the…!” John started hissing, only for his breath to catch in his throat when he saw the Doctor sitting in Sherlock’s chair, looking just as he did when he left him in that field. He hadn’t changed at all. Still a tweed jacket. Still a bowtie. Still grinning from ear to ear.

“Hello, John Watson!” The Doctor cried, throwing his hands up into the air and standing. “Lovely to see you again! How are things? How’s it been? How’s it hanging?”

“What are you doing here?” John asked calmly, clenching his fists.

The Doctor’s smile faltered. “Well, I did say I’d pop back in again.” He said. “So here I am! And look at this place! Wonderful set-up you’ve got here! Although, did you really need a skull? It’s kind of strange, and I feel like it’s following me with its eyes… which is even more peculiar, because it doesn’t have eyes… Just eye sockets!”

As the Doctor leaned over said skull and bent this way and that, John felt bitter anger and subtle joy at seeing his old friend. It was a strange combination, and one that made the back of his throat burn, even as he swallowed it down.

“Do you know what year it is?” John asked coldly, causing the Doctor to freeze. “Do you know what’s happened? Well, of course you know. You would know. You’re the Doctor!”

John then stomped into the kitchen to put away the milk, jumping only slightly at seeing the fingers in the Tupperware at eye level.

“I know.” He heard the Doctor state softly, causing John to turn his head to see him leaning against the doorframe, looking only a little guilty.

“I waited, you know.” John said, changing his mind and leaving the milk on the table, needing it for tea as he set the kettle on. “You told me you’d be back, so I waited. I waited when my father died, I waited when my mother died. I waited when my sister had to go to the hospital for the hundredth time for alcohol poisoning! I waited when I got shot!”

John paused in shouting to take a few deep breaths. “I waited, and you never came. Not when I needed you to come…”

“I couldn’t come then, John. I couldn’t.” The Doctor said, and John heard him approach. “You had to go through all that alone, and I’m sorry for that…”

There was silence as John looked at him, and he seemed genuinely sorry.

“But look at where you got to!” The Doctor said, already beaming with childlike glee. “You’re a doctor! You were in the army, like you wanted! You met a brilliant man, the world’s only consulting detective! You get to dash about London, solve crimes and go after bad guys! And you do that thing with writing about it and putting it on the internet for the whole world to see! Isn’t that wonderful!?”

John couldn’t help but grin faintly, nodding. “Yeah, yeah it is…” He said, looking up at the Doctor. “But why are you here now?”

The Doctor then planted a warm, heavy hand on his good shoulder. “What do you think?” He asked. “How about another adventure? This time, your friend can come along!”

John felt a bit wary at that. “I thought you never did that.”

“Did what?”

“Come back to old companions, or whatever you call them, and take them around again.” John continued, straightening and facing him. “What’s happening?”

The Doctor faltered, then, smile wavering slightly. “Nothing serious, I promise you.” He said. “Another friend and her husband are currently living married life, like humans tend to do. Traveled alone for a bit and thought I’d fulfill my promise to you.”

John couldn’t help but think that was a bit weird, but the Doctor seemed to be telling the truth. He got good at reading men like him over the years. It helped traveling with him. Helped working and living with Sherlock. Plus, he missed it. The planets, the future, the past. Oh, he missed it.

The Doctor’s other hand landed on his other shoulder. “So! How about it, Doctor John Watson? How about another trip?”

John wanted to go, he really did. And he was offering to bring Sherlock along. But like this? Plus Sherlock, although relatively sound in mind when it came to science and believing what was in front of him, would probably go a bit more insane than he already was if he walked in right now, got shoved into the TARDIS and taken to some strange planet or the twenties.

“I… I’d need time to warm him up to the idea…” John explained. “Y’see, Sherlock-.”

John was cut off by the sound of the door slamming shut. Both he and the Doctor looked at each other with wide eyes, and John panicked when he heard that familiar voice call out to him in that tone. That tone just spelling out that they had another case, and apparently it was a doozy.

“Yeah, not now. He can’t deal with this now.” John stated, grabbing the Doctor and ushering him into the TARDIS. “Get in there, cloak her, and when we go, park her on the street or something and come back later.”

“I don’t think that-!” The Doctor started, only for John to slam the door shut on him. He then backed up and relief washed over him when the Doctor did as he was told; the blue police box vanishing into thin air with only a flicker.

John hesitated, then rushed back into the kitchen to finish with the tea, pulling two mugs out and placing a tea bag in each.

Just as he poured the water into the mugs, the door burst open and Sherlock came dashing in, coat billowing and grinning like it was Christmas morning.

“John!” Sherlock called, rounding into the kitchen. “There you are! No time for tea! Lestrade called. Body found at home, locked rooms and all! Strange circumstances with the death! It’s fantastic!”

“Yeah, all right! Hold on, I’m coming!” John said, trying to sound irritated as he followed Sherlock towards the stairs, only to bump into him when he froze. “Wha- Sherlock! Don’t just stop in the middle of the-!”

Said flatmate rounded on John, bending slightly to look him eye-to-eye. Said silver eyes were narrowed, and studying him like he was a corpse. Analyzing. Deducting. John knew he was in trouble.

“You’re hiding something.” Sherlock said quietly. 

“What?” John countered quickly. A bit too quickly. “No I’m not!”

“Yes, yes you are!” Sherlock said, looking around. “Someone was here. Is here. Someone you don’t want me to meet.”

Sherlock then stomped back towards the sitting room, looking around. “Someone from your past. Someone you met when you were a teenager. Late teens. Someone important. Influential. Influential to your profession? No, that was your grandfather, and he’s obviously dead by now. Your sexuality? The man that helped affirm you were at least bi-curious, and then made you swear off men entirely? Is that the one?”

“No, Sherlock!” John stated firmly as Sherlock began to pace in the sitting room, ever so wary about the fact that the TARDIS was still in the room, cloaked and out of sight. “There’s so many things wrong with that, but right now, the most important thing is that no one’s here!”

“Oh, don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, John!” Sherlock snapped, freezing for only a moment before pacing again. “You started the kettle and had two mugs on the counter well before I got in. You obviously knew I wasn’t here, since you always check after you come in. You would only do that if someone else was here, but they must’ve left in a hurry, since you only have two cups, not three. Too much of a hurry, in fact, because I just got in and I saw no one leave. So where would they-!”

“Sherlock, careful!” John called as Sherlock’s gait kept getting him closer and closer to the cloaked TARDIS, only to cringe when his warning came too late and Sherlock rushed right into it with a loud thud. 

Sherlock reared back, head spinning and John rushed and caught him before he could hit the ground. His nose already reddened with abuse and a speck of blood began to seep out.

“Sherlock?” John inquired warily. He sighed in relief when he got a groan in response. “Did you break it?”

“No, I don’t think it’s broken…” Sherlock forced out, clutching his offended nose. He opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. “What would I’ve broken it on? What did I hit?”

The answer came when the Doctor opened the door to the still-cloaked TARDIS and poked his head out.

“Everything all right out here? Thought I heard something...” He inquired, causing Sherlock’s head to whip up and stare with wide eyes at the floating head in the room.

John sighed. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t work.” He whispered to himself.

“Ha-How?” Sherlock sputtered, forcing himself back up and standing on his own feet, John leaving a hand on his back to support him in case he fell over.

The Doctor’s eyes widened. “Oh! Right! Be back in a moment!”

With that, he disappeared and the door shut, leaving nothing but empty space behind.

“Did… Am I seeing things?” Sherlock started after a moment of pause, turning towards John. His voice sounded muffled due to his hand still clutching his nose.

John froze at that, knowing he was caught, but having no clue how to respond. “Ah… Um, well…”

He was cut off when the air shifted and glimmered and the TARDIS came into full view. Sherlock noticed John looking at it, so he turned and immediately leapt back in surprise at the police box that was now in the middle of their sitting room.

“John, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” He demanded, heading backwards towards his chair, pointing at it. “Can you see an old-fashioned police box in the middle of our sitting room?”

“Yes, yes I can, Sherlock.” John said, sounding tired, and he was. 

Sherlock gave him an accusing look. “You’ve seen it before. You-!” He started, stumbling into his chair, leaning forward and jabbing his finger towards it. “You’ve seen this! I can tell you’ve seen it!”

“It was a long time ago.” John said, speaking slowly. “Now, Sherlock, you need to calm down and-!”

He was cut off when the Doctor stepped back out. “Right! There! Sorry about the nose there, Sherlock Holmes.” He said, turning towards John. “Sorry the plan didn’t work out, John. It was a good plan, though.”

Sherlock shot John an offended look. “You weren’t going to tell me-!”

“Only when you were ready, Sherlock.” John pressed. “Didn’t think you’d take to it well like this…”

Sherlock scoffed and winced, still clutching his nose as blood started to ooze past his upper lip and headed towards his chin.

“I’m getting you a towel or something, and something cold to prevent too much swelling.” John said, doctor-mode switching on. He then spared a glance at the Doctor. “And tea. Definitely tea.”

As John went into the kitchen, ignoring Sherlock’s glare, the Doctor stepped up to the consulting detective.

“Yeah, you need to be careful where you walk. The TARDIS is pretty solid. I would apologize, but it is kind of your fault for walking into her…” The Doctor said. “I’m the Doctor, by the way. Lovely to meet you! You’ve probably heard of me, though, from your brother. Can I just say-!”

“John!” Sherlock snarled, cutting the Doctor off. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” John snipped, juggling three cups of milky tea, two with sugar added, a towel and a bag of frozen peas tucked under his arm. He set the teas on the table and started to try and place the peas and towel on Sherlock’s offended nose, but the man swatted at him.

“Explain.” Sherlock hissed, leaning towards him. “Now.”

John sighed, handing Sherlock the towel and the peas. “Put that on first.”

Sherlock huffed, but did as he was told. He wrapped the peas quickly with the towel, leaving some free to dap at the blood as he rested the frozen bag on his face. All the while the Doctor stole a cup of tea and sipped, watching the show with a grin playing on his face.

“Right.” John said after a moment. “Well, you heard him. He’s the Doctor. I met him when I was seventeen…”

“And we traveled together.” The Doctor cut in. “By the way, it was his friend Charles when he was fifteen. I had nothing to do with his sexual preferences… Did I?”

John scoffed. “What is it with you two!? I’m straight!” He snapped. “… But no, no you didn’t.”

“So you naively traveled with a strange man who happens to have…” Sherlock hissed, trailing off to wave at the police box in the sitting room. “That… That thing…!”

“It’s called a TARDIS.” The Doctor corrected. “She’s not a thing.”

Sherlock glared at the Doctor, then rounded it on John. “And you weren’t going to tell me about the lunatic with a police box in our sitting room?”

“I was, Sherlock!” John insisted. “I swear!… Just… Not like this… Of course, I should’ve known you’d act like an idiot and run head first into her.”

“Her?” Sherlock parroted.

“The TARDIS.” The Doctor insisted. “Time and Relative Dimensions in Space.”

Sherlock went wide-eyed. “Time and what?”

“And Relative Dimensions in Space, Sherlock.” John insisted, trying to remain calm and resist the urge to pull his hair out. “It’s… it’s a complicated piece of machinery…”

“Complicated?” Sherlock scoffed, lowering the bag from his face. “A police box?”

“It’s a TARD-!” The Doctor pressed, but Sherlock rounded on him, eyes blazing.

“Will you stop with all that TARDIS business!?” Sherlock snarled. “Obviously, the two of you are delusional, have been for years!”

“How could I’ve been that way for so long and be an army doctor, Sherlock? And how could I’ve somehow kept a police box, especially one that can hide that well, in my possessions and just decide to randomly show you now?” John pressed, lips thinned, causing Sherlock to glare at him. “And the Doctor? Explain how he hasn’t aged a day. Explain all that to me.”

Sherlock straightened his coat. “Medications. Plus, I’ve been gone all day, and you could’ve faked being at the clinic and have Sarah cover for you.” He insisted. “I could go on, you know.”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, only to look up when the Doctor snapped his fingers and the door to the TARDIS opened.

“Take a look.” Was all he said as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at both of them. “Go on.”

After one final snarl, Sherlock rose to his feet and stomped towards the TARDIS, flinging the door wider and stepping in. John fought the giggle that threatened to erupt when he heard Sherlock’s shoes skid to a halt inside. There was a long moment where nothing could be heard, and John wondered if Sherlock had wandered off into one of the TARDIS’s many hallways and gotten lost. Instead, Sherlock rushed back out, skin even paler than before and eyes wide.

“That…!” He sputtered, looking at them, then rounding on the TARDIS, patting her down and circling her. When he made a full circuit, he stuck his head back in. He shut the door, squeezed his eyes shut, opened both his eyes and the door and stuck his head back in again. 

He did this a couple of times before rounding on them. “That is impossible!”

“Improbable.” John corrected.

“Actually, very possible.” The Doctor corrected, standing. “Timelord technology! Another dimension, which makes it bigger on the inside! Ain’t it brilliant?”

Sherlock stumbled back as the Doctor stood next to him.

“Are we still delusional?” John asked, causing Sherlock to gawk at him.

“What does it…?” He started slowly. 

“The TARDIS can travel throughout time and space.” The Doctor said, leaning against said box. “Got a lot of mileage on her.”

Sherlock let out a breath he must’ve been holding, looking in between John and the Doctor, as if waiting for them to reveal that it was all a prank.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John said after a moment, slowly stepping up to his friend as if he were a frightened animal. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I didn’t even know he’d show up here like this! I know it’s a lot to take in, and I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned as he stared at John for a few long moments of silence. The silence was interrupted when a text alert sounded from Sherlock’s phone. The Doctor exchanged a look with John who held his hands up.

“We need to go, John.” Sherlock said, looking at his text. “We have a case, and Lestrade’s threatening to sick Anderson onto the scene first. We’ll deal with… your friend later…”

Sherlock rounded on the Doctor for a moment, then stepped forward. “This…” He said, gesturing to the TARDIS. “Can’t stay here… Get rid of it. Come back later. Casework comes first with John and I, and after, we’ll deal with… this…”

Sherlock headed for the door. “Come, John!” He called, dashing downstairs.

“I’m sorry…” John breathed. “He’s… He doesn’t like to be unsure, or wrong.”

“I can understand that.” The Doctor said, smiling. “Give him time, he’ll come around.”

“Hope so.” John breathed. “I… I better go after him. I’ll see you later, Doctor!”

He headed for the door, then paused, rounding on him. “Please promise we’ll see you later. Not by years or months, or-!”

“I promise I won’t go traveling without you, John.” The Doctor said.

John felt wary again, but nodded, rushing down the stairs, grabbing his coat and throwing it on as Sherlock hailed a taxi. They spent the cab ride in silence as John felt himself a bit overcome.

Two madmen in his life, and with what happened at their flat moments ago, John couldn’t help but want the day, and the case, to end quickly.

He didn’t know, though, that it wouldn’t, and that the Doctor would be needed.


	3. The Big, Not-So-Bad Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's a werewolf in a world where werewolves face a lot of grief. Sherlock is one of the few who don't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. A werewolf AU. This is before I saw anything from FlyingRotten's awesomesauce stuff. Sooo... Yeah!

Werewolves have always been discriminated against, and while it has gotten better over the years, there was still too many problems and prejudices against them to mark the problems with werewolf equality as solved. John Watson was no different, and it was even worse because he was born from a family of them, and had a mother that remained human. Parents would take away their children at the park if he played with them, he never had a roommate in Uni, and the only long-term girlfriend he ever had stayed around because she didn’t know. It was rare that there were humans that he became friends with, especially as a child, and they knew about John and the wolf he could become. He was fortunate that Bill Murray, a human, was nearby when he was shot with a silver bullet in Afghanistan. The man was one of the few open-minded people that made it into the army, and if he weren’t so insistent on not letting John bleed to death in the sand, he wouldn’t be where he was today.

And when Mike, whose wife was a werewolf, introduced him to Sherlock Holmes as a possible flatmate, John automatically assumed that he was one of those people. 

He wasn’t disappointed.

“You’re a werewolf.” Sherlock said one day as John was drinking tea and reading the newspaper. They had been living together for a few months at that point, and John was waiting for this conversation. 

He was surprised that it took so long.

“Pardon?” He asked, trying to play nonchalant, but this only got an eye roll in response. 

“Please, John.” Sherlock scoffed from his place on the sofa. He immediately stood. “You have an aversion to anything silver. You marked your room and the door to the flat. Not to mention that you leave to visit your family a week out of every month around the time that the moon is full.”

John just watched as Sherlock paced for a moment before settling on grabbing his coat and scarf. For a horrifying moment, he thought Sherlock was going to ask him to move out while he was off on business. That maybe he wasn’t as open-minded as he originally thought. 

“Don’t look like that. I have no problems with either you or Lestrade, whom I’ve known to be a werewolf for years.” Sherlock explained. “Werewolf or human, each has an equal chance of committing a crime. They are no different in my eyes. Now that you know I know, you are free to stay here when you change, since I know that you tend to dislike visiting your family during that time, especially your sister. I don’t mind walking you if you wish to go out as long as you let me put a collar and leash on you. I don’t mind the occasional chase, either. I draw the line at such things as ‘fetch’ and brushing. If you shed, you clean up the resulting fall-out.”

With that, Sherlock turned to the door. “Now, I have to go to Bart’s. Hopefully Molly has the intestines I’ve been waiting on.”

John just stared after Sherlock with a mix of disbelief and utter relief. The last time he lived with someone who knew about him immediately fled and asked for his things to be shipped. Which he did, but out of spite, his wolf urinated on everything. The guy tried to press charges, but they couldn’t do anything. He tends to giggle over it with friends now and again when he’s had a few too many to drink. He would never top Greg’s story of how he reacted when he discovered his wife was cheating on him, though. 

Amusing stories aside, he still needed to discuss certain things with Sherlock. So he timed making tea just right, and managed to hand a sulking Sherlock a cup as he arrived a few hours later.

“No luck?” John started lightly.

“First the liver, now this.” Sherlock grumbled, flopping down onto his armchair, still in his coat and scarf. “It’s distasteful.”

John couldn’t help but grin at Sherlock’s response, and decided to get to the point after drinking some tea. “Look, Sherlock.” He said calmly. “There’s some things we need to discuss…”

“Is it about you being a werewolf?” Sherlock asked, looking at John curiously.

“Yes.”

“Look, John, I don’t know how much clearer I can-.”

“Sherlock, _please_.” John pressed. “Just… let me talk.”

Sherlock stared at him for a few long moments before eventually nodding.

“I’m grateful that you don’t seem to care about what I am. Really, it’s great.” John said. “There are a few things I need to tell you about the matter, though. One: I don’t mind staying here for my change. I’ve been told I’m rather docile, so that’s not a problem. The problem is that I will get bored if you keep me in here. I’m a wolf, Sherlock. I need to run.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. “We can always go to the park.”

“That’s another thing. I won’t mind the collar, but the leash shouldn’t be on at all times. Take me off it once we get to the park, and I should be fine. Just call for me when you’re done and I’ll come back. I promise.” John continued. “Third, no experiments.”

“They would only test you strength and-.”

“ _No_.”

“I would make it fun for you.”

“Only if you brush me, then.”

“… _Fine_ …”

John chuckled. “Oh, it’s not so bad.” He said. “Fourth, and this is important, Sherlock: this remains between you, me, Lestrade, and maybe Mycroft, and that’s only because I have no doubt he already knows. I don’t want it broadcasted all over, and I don’t wish to be enlisted in Mycroft’s secret werewolf army or anything like that, either.”

“Mycroft isn’t permitted to have you.” Sherlock said. “We’ve made this understanding ages ago, John.”

John decided not to bother with asking when Sherlock managed to discuss that, but he let it slide nonetheless. 

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked.

“No funny nicknames or forcing me into a bath.” John finally added. “Other than that, it’s fine.”

Sherlock then grinned. “It is fine, John.”

And John grinned back, because it really was.


	4. Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John has trouble finding work, Mike provides some inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you watch Tootsie, or at least that's what happened to me. You can kinda tell where I gave up here.

When John Watson was invalided back to London after being shot in Afghanistan, he knew that he’d have some problems trying to find a job. Not very many people are comfortable with hiring an ex-army doctor who has a tremor in his dominant hand and a psychosomatic limp coupled with PTSD. However, even the places he applied to where he was almost indecently over-qualified with all that his problems had turned him down. He couldn’t stay in London forever with just an army pension. He was getting a bit desperate. 

So it was pretty much his saving grace that he ran into his old friend Mike Stamford while he was taking a walk, and he informed John that there was a position open in the mortuary at Bart’s that would probably accept him. Except for one tiny thing.

“I’ve heard in the rumor mill that they’re trying to track down another woman.” Mike had explained. “Work equality and all, so you might not get it even if it seems like a sure thing.”

“I can’t live in London on just an army pension.” John replied. “Hell, I’m desperate enough to apply for that job dressed in bloody drag!”

They had laughed it off at first, but then Mike got that spark in his eye and a grin John hadn’t seen since they pranked one of their professors with a liver in the old man’s desk.

“Why don’t you?”

So that’s how John started working in the morgue at St. Bart’s as Jane Harriet Watson.

It still surprised him that he managed to get all the proper documentation, and that he actually made for a rather attractive woman in his blonde wig and face caked in makeup. Apparently, having a limp and a tremor doesn’t stop some of the younger, male lab assistants from trying to pick him up. He just wished he had that same attraction power when he _wasn’t_ in lady’s undergarments. And aside from losing sleep on needing time to get ready coupled with nightmares, he rather liked being able to not worry about being able to afford rent on top of paying for groceries and the like. He also got along with pretty much everyone. 

Molly Hooper, a sweet, shy girl who worked with him down in the morgue, was one of those people. Despite her macabre sense of humor and how excitable she could be, they managed to get along just fine. So when John teased her lightly about how dressed up she was one day, she only blushed a little.

“So, who’s the lucky man?” John asked in his best female voice. “Or… woman? I don’t judge.”

“Oh, it’s a man! Definitely a man! Not that there’s… er, it’s a man.” Molly stammered, her lips quirked, and John fought the urge to tell her she used too much lipstick. “He’s working a case, and he’s coming in to see the body of the victim. _That_ one, actually.”

John looked down at the man he was currently doing an autopsy on. The poor bloke had gotten shot in the head, and was clearly a drug addict. One would think it was a drug deal gone wrong, but John was slowly uncovering facts that made it not quite the case.

“Oh.” He said, looking up at Molly. “Should I wait to…?”

“Oh, no! It’s fine! Just don’t be too offended if he tries to correct you or something like that.” Molly said. “He’s… well, he can be a bit intense for some.”

“Uh-huh…” John murmured before getting back to work. “So, do you want to join me in the canteen for lunch later? Or are you going to be too busy?”

“Well, we’ll see!” She sang, and John couldn’t help but grin at her and the hope clearly ringing in her voice. She really was just too sweet.

-

“Molly!”

“Yes, Jane?” Molly called as she headed over to the table, looking down at the man John just finished with. “Oh! You’re done! That was quick.”

“Yeah,” John said, taking off his blood-covered gloves. “And we’re going to need to inform the person in charge of this investigation that he didn’t die of the gunshot wound.”

“Oh?” Molly said, then her brow furrowed as John tossed his gloves away. “Really?”

John merely nodded, adjusting his stance on his cane. “Yeah. It just looks like it, but the gunshot wound to the head occurred post-mortem.”

“Then how did he die?”

Both John and Molly whipped around to see a man standing behind them, and John instantly knew this was the man Molly was trying to impress. He was attractive in a peculiar way, with pale skin, sharp cheekbones, even sharper silver eyes, and inky black curls all wrapped up in an expensive suit, dark blue scarf, and a long sweeping coat. 

“Sherlock!” Molly cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in!”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t dwell on how your friend here applies her blusher.” Was the man’s, Sherlock’s, retort as he stared at John with those sharp eyes. “Now, tell me, how did he die?”

“Er…” John started before clearing his throat and looking back at the body. “He was poisoned. Arsenic, probably, but the test results haven’t come in yet. The gunshot wound happened roughly an hour after he died.”

“Arsenic is most likely the case, yes.” Sherlock agreed. “But the man didn’t ingest it. A drug addict that far gone into his habit, homeless, food is already hard to come by and topped with the fact that he was probably more concerned on getting his next fix, he hadn’t eaten it.”

“He didn’t eat it.” John confirmed before motioning to one of the man’s arms. “He injected it.”

Sherlock scowled before heading over to the counter to put on a pair of gloves. While his back was turned, John exchanged looks with Molly, who just flashed him grin that was clearly forced. It was broken up when Sherlock walked back over and examined the man himself. He looked at the bullet wound, the inside of his mouth, the most recent injection sight, along with other points of interest. John fought down the urge to tell the man off, since he pretty much cut in front of him, but he merely decided to hobble back a few steps.

“You were right.” Sherlock finally said as he straightened. “Someone mixed arsenic with the heroin he eventually injected himself with, moved him, and then shot him in the head to make it look like a drug deal gone wrong. I’m impressed; normally people don’t pick up on such small things.”

“Er…” John started, looking back and forth from Molly to Sherlock before readjusting his stance. “Well, thanks, I suppose.”

“Hmm, yes…” He drawled, and John fought the urge to look away as the man in front of him kept studying him. “Coffee.”

“What?” Both Molly and John replied.

“Coffee, Molly.” Sherlock stated, looking at the other mortician. “Black, two sugars, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay…” Molly said quietly after a moment, obviously disappointed as she ducked her head and made her way out of the morgue. John tried to stop her, but she wasn’t paying attention. 

“That was rather rude.” John snapped when Molly finally left. He hobbled around the man who continued staring down at him. Eventually he made it to the counter, where he made notes in a file. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John jumped at the voice, and it had more to do with the fact that it was right behind him and less with the actual question. He turned his head and fought the urge to blush as the man was practically leaning over him.

“P-Pardon?”

“Where were you stationed?” He elaborated. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John just blinked before turning himself further and leaning back, trying to give himself some more space. “It… It was Afghanistan.” He answered. “Excuse me, but how did you know?”

“Obvious.” Sherlock replied. “Your stance and posture clearly speak of a military career, yet you work in a morgue, so you were an army doctor. You’re tanned, but you have a tan line at your wrist, which I saw when you gestured to the victim’s arm. That along with your limp, which is psychosomatic, says that it was recent and you left due to an injury. Where would an army doctor be deployed and then shot in action recently? Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John stared up at the man as he explained it all with such an air of aloofness that it seemed natural. How he saw all those things had John thrown, and was surprised that Sherlock apparently didn’t notice that he was actually a man.

He cleared his throat before speaking, making sure he could pitch his voice correctly. “That…” He said softly. “Was amazing.”

Sherlock looked down at him with surprised eyes. “You think so?”

“Yes. That was really quite extraordinary.”

There was a flicker of a smile on his face and he ducked his head, as if embarrassed that he was so clearly flattered by the praise. John fought the urge to giggle, thinking that it wouldn’t be appropriate.

“That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock finally said, schooling his features and looking at John again.

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John did laugh that time, trying to cover it up by clearing his throat before looking up at him, seeing that he was almost unbearably close. 

“Ah, well…” John said, adjusting his stance. “I… I need to do some paperwork, now. So-…”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Sherlock said, stepping back. John fought the disappointment as he reached for the file and he started walking towards his office. He paused, curious, before he finally turned back at the man, who was staring at the sink.

“How did you know my limp is psychosomatic?”

Sherlock looked back up and grinned at him. “Not once did you sit down since I came in.”

“Huh…” John murmured, before flashing Sherlock a parting grin. “Very well.”

With that, John left just as Molly entered with Sherlock’s coffee. 

-

John, who was busy filling out paperwork, was interrupted four times that day. Once was by Molly, who offered to accompany him to lunch, which he readily agreed to. The other three times weren’t by Molly, and were very spaced out. 

The first was when, well Molly was part of it, the young mortician opened the door and knocked, getting John’s attention. “Jane?”

He looked up to see Molly standing in front of Sherlock and a man he’d only seen a couple of times before, but never had the pleasure of being introduced. A middle-aged man who was quite fit, with silver hair and deep eyes and wearing a suit that hadn’t been ironed and was worn more than once. 

“Can I help you with something, gentlemen?” He finally asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“This is who identified the cause of death.” Sherlock introduced before Molly could speak. “It was just like I said.”

Lestrade shot Sherlock a look before stepping up to John’s desk, pausing to flash Molly a kind grin. “So you’re Doctor Jane Watson?”

John grunted with the effort it took to stand, using his desk for support. “Yes, and you’re the Detective Inspector?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.” He introduced, shaking John’s hand. “And you say that the victim died from arsenic poisoning?”

“Yes, as it says in my report, which I’m sure Molly already gave you.” John affirmed. 

“I didn’t-.” Lestrade started before Molly cleared her throat and handed the file to him. “Ah.”

“You left it on the counter.” Molly explained. “It’s okay, though. A lot of people tend to do that.”

“Well, sorry, anyway.” Lestrade muttered as he opened the report. “Test results do read out positive for arsenic, and you say he injected it…?”

“A heroin addict whose drugs were cut by the ex-girlfriend.” Sherlock explained. “I already explained all this to you.”

“I’m just making sure I’ve got all the facts straight.” Lestrade chastised, looking back at the tall man. “I can’t just do what you do with my boss, Sherlock. He’d have my head!”

“Oh, please…” Sherlock hissed. 

“Oh, don’t get stroppy.” Lestrade grumbled. “Anyway, thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“Not a problem.” John said with a grin, looking at Molly. “It’s our job, after all.”

Molly had a small grin on her face as well when Lestrade looked back and forth between them.

“Ah, yes. Right.” He said. “Well, I won’t take up anymore of your time. Thanks for the good work. Both of you.”

“Anytime.” Molly chimed in as Lestrade waved off before turning to Sherlock.

“Need a lift?” He asked Sherlock. “Or are you going to take a taxi?”

“You know I won’t ride in the police car.” Sherlock replied. “Besides, I have experiments that need to be done.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Just trying to help you save money, Sherlock. Fares aren’t cheap!”

“Not a lot is, nowadays.”

Lestrade left then, leaving Molly and Sherlock standing by the door. 

“Well, I’ll just go… do… yeah.” She muttered before walking off. 

John fought the urge to call her back, still not completely comfortable being left alone in the presence of the tall man at his office door. He didn’t say anything, so John just shrugged and went back to work.

“Malnutrition.”

John didn’t lift his head at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “Yes, you suffer from it.” He replied, smirking at the scoff he heard. “The canteen is perfectly good. I’m sure they have no problem letting you eat something.”

“I meant you.”

John did look up that time. “Me?”

“Perspiration, placid skin tone. Clearly you skipped two meals.” Sherlock replied before straightening. “The canteen has dreadful food. The café around the corner is much better. Come along.”

John sent him a look. “You want to take me to a café?” He said slowly.

“I won’t be eating. I still have a case to wrap up. And food slows me down.” Sherlock replied. “You obviously need it, though. I also wanted your input.”

For some odd reason, an image of Molly flashed into his mind. She was clearly besotted with the man in front of him. If John went out with Sherlock, he’d feel at least a little guilty going out on a practical date with the man she had a crush on. Especially when he wasn’t even a woman, and clearly Sherlock didn’t know that. Not to mention the paperwork he needed to finish.

“Thanks for the offer, but I can’t.” John replied, turning back to his work.

“You can’t?” Sherlock replied. “Why not?”

“Paperwork can’t do itself.” John replied easily. “I need to get this done in two hours, and I really can’t spare the time.”

There was silence for a few moments, and John pushed himself not to stop his work and look back up at the man. He half-wondered if he left, anyway.

“Any other reason why you would refuse to go?”

John looked at him, utterly surprised at the drawn face he had. 

“Wha-? No.” John said. “Look, as I said, I’m really busy, so I can’t be pulled away right now.”

Sherlock looked away, and John could tell he wasn’t buying it. Obviously he felt like John didn’t like him for some reason. Granted, he was a bit rude, but he wasn’t _that_ bad.

“Maybe some other time?” John asked, causing Sherlock to look at him again. “Tomorrow? It’s Thursday, and Thursdays are always slow…”

“Really?” Sherlock said slowly, obviously pleased by the idea.

John grinned. “You can tell me about your case, then.” 

“It’s settled.” Sherlock said, flashing a grin at him before leaving, the door swinging shut behind him.

John finished an hour later, and that was when Molly swung by to ask him to join her for lunch. John made it a point not to tell the girl about his Thursday plans. She probably would’ve taken it the wrong way. It wasn’t like they were going out on a date, after all.

-

The second time was when Sherlock just waltzed right inside, not bothering to knock or get his permission.

“Christ!” John had hissed when the man entered. “Don’t you knock?”

“Can I borrow your phone?” He asked, ignoring John’s statement. “Mine has no signal.”

“Just use the landline.” John said, motioning towards a prime example that sat on his desk.

“I prefer to text.”

John stared at him for a few seconds before sighing, digging into his pocket and handing the phone over to the man, who took it with a quirk of his lips. He didn’t waste any time, flipping it open and typing out a message and sending it off. 

“I take it you still refuse to talk to your brother.”

John looked up at that, brows furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Your brother. He recently divorced from his wife, and you don’t approve of it.” Sherlock explained. “That or it’s his drinking.”

John was once again floored at how Sherlock knew about any of that. “How could you _possibly_ know…?”

“The phone model is new, but the screen is scuffed and marred from rough handling. It was a gift from someone you don’t want to talk to, even though they do want to talk to you. Then there’s the engraving on the back, and even you would know I noticed that. Harry, obviously someone close to you, so brother. Then there’s Clara, and with the expense of the phone, she’s obviously his wife. Ex-wife, since he just gave his phone away. Obviously he left her.” Sherlock explained quickly before handing the phone back to a slack-jawed John. “The other option would be husband, but you’re clearly not married. Divorced, but with the state of the phone, you certainly wouldn’t keep his name.”

John cleared his throat then. “No, no. Not married.” He confirmed, pocketing his phone. “Still quite amazed that you managed to do that.”

Sherlock just flashed a grin then, but John could see he was glowing with pride at his deductions. He almost wondered if the man was trying to impress him, but immediately squashed that notion. Sure, he was attractive, and rather smart, but John was practically crippled. Not to mention that he was in women’s clothes, a warm wig, and caked with makeup. 

“And the drinking?” John couldn’t help but ask, causing Sherlock’s eyebrows to quirk. “How did you know that?”

“Shot in the dark, but a good one though.” Sherlock said, adjusting his coat. “In the charge port on the phone, there are numerous scratches. You never see a sober man’s phone with those, nor a drunk man’s phone without.”

John just giggled, hiding his lipstick-covered mouth as he tried not to openly laugh at the expense of his _brother_. Perhaps he should correct that.

“Well, I must be off. I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Sherlock said before sweeping out. “Afternoon!”

And John was left curious and disturbed, wondering why on earth Sherlock would need a riding crop, let alone one in the mortuary. 

“Not sanitary…” 

-

The third time it happened, John didn’t see him come in. In fact, he was out getting more coffee, and when he returned, the visitor had sat in a chair in front of his desk. Clearly a rich man, decked out in a lavish-looking three-piece suit and twiddling with an umbrella, he looked up at John and grinned.

“Ah, Doctor Watson.” He greeted. “I was wondering when you would be returning. I hope you don’t mind, I took a seat and decided to wait for you.”

“Er- Do I know you?” He asked, still standing near the doorway and adjusting his stance. Having a limp was bad, but putting heels on to top it off made it even more uncomfortable. 

“No, but you know someone I am acquainted with. A Sherlock Holmes, as you know.” The man explained. “Please come in, and do shut the door. I think you’d like some privacy for this conversation.”

Indignant anger roiled slowly in his gut and he adjusted his stance. “I don’t think so.”

The man just sent him a look. “Really, now Doctor. Oh, do you mind if I call you Jane?” He inquired lightly, but it shifted instantly. “Or do you prefer _John_?”

Immediately, John slammed the door shut, feeling his face heat in horror and embarrassment. He didn’t let go of the handle right away. Just clutched it harshly. 

“At ease, doctor.” The man said loftily. “I am not here to expose you, nor to get you fired. Or worse, arrested. It is rather hard to find a decent job in London these days, particularly a man such as yourself. The fact that you’ve put on an entirely new identity to get it speaks of desperation. I do not intend to make your life more difficult… unless you are.”

“What do you want?” He asked, not even bothering to pitch his voice.

“You must be uncomfortable, walking around in heels all day with your leg bothering you.” The man said, motioning to John’s chair. “Have a seat.”

John pursed his lips, but finally pushed away from the door and sat, propping his cane against the desk and setting his coffee in front of him. He then leaned over, folding his hands together and staring the man down.

“What. Do you. Want?” He asked again.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John’s brow furrowed. “I have none.” He answered honestly. “I barely know him. We just met today.”

“And since then, he has complimented your work ethic, asked you for lunch, and has given you his phone number.” The man said in kind. “Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“Why does it matter to you?” John asked.

“I worry about him. Constantly.” The man explained. “He refuses to talk to me himself, so I enquire about him from other sources. That, and when he associates himself with someone new, I take it upon myself to make sure they aren’t… unsavory.”

John didn’t fight his snort. “You sound like some overprotective older brother.”

The man just sent John a look, and it hit him square in the head.

“Oh god…” John breathed, leaning back in his seat. “Are you _really_ -?”

“I am Mycroft Holmes, yes. I’m indeed the older brother.” He answered. “Normally people don’t suggest that.”

“What do they suggest, then?”

“Well, nothing, really.” Mycroft answered, flashing John a grin. “I simply tell them how Sherlock sees me.”

“And how does he see you?”

“He sees me as an enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“Well, more like archenemy.” Mycroft twirled his umbrella then. “You can imagine that our relationship is… tremulous at best.”

“I can imagine.” John agreed. “So you’re just here to make sure the crazy army doctor in drag isn’t going to do something terrible to your little brother?”

“In a sense, yes.” Mycroft said. “And to give you an offer.”

John immediately didn’t like his tone. “An offer.”

“Yes.” Mycroft assured. “I will pay you a monthly salary. Very substantial. Enough to get you out of your wig and into a better flat.”

John gave him a look. “You’re just going to _give_ this to me?” He said. “For what?”

“Information.” Mycroft replied. “As I said, my brother and I don’t have the best of relationships. I need to learn how he’s doing through the people he knows.”

John pursed his lips, drumming his hands on the desk and hoping that Mycroft could read the answer off his face.

“Ah.” He did. “You refuse.”

“Correct.” John agreed. 

“You have trust issues, but you do become loyal _very quickly_.” Mycroft replied, causing John’s stomach to go cold.

“Trust issues?” John parroted softly.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, pulling out a notebook. A familiar notebook. One that belonged to his therapist. “It says so right here. It also says that-.”

“Stop!” John hissed, clenching his hands into fists. “I think we’re done here. You know where the door is.”

Mycroft didn’t move, but John could see that his grin became a little smug as he pocketed the notebook. “One more thing before I leave, Doctor Watson.”

“I think you’ve already said enough.” John replied, already shifting back into his feminine pitch. He bent his head down as he went back to work. “Please leave.”

“Will you tell him?”

John glanced up at the man, pausing for only a moment. He knew what Mycroft was referring to. Not of the meeting, no. He was referring to the adam’s apple hidden by his turtleneck. The fake breasts shoved into the bra he wore. The special underwear he purchased in order to tuck his privates away. 

“That depends on a lot of factors.” John finally replied. “If we become better acquainted, I will tell him, though.”

“In that case, I will not tell him myself, nor the board.” Mycroft replied, causing John to lift his head. “It really was a pleasure to meet you, Jane. Have a pleasant evening.”

-

Mycroft Holmes was indeed correct about Sherlock giving John his number. As soon as he got home and out of the uncomfortable garments, removed the wig, and washed his face several times, he saw a text message from a strange number.

_In case we need to contact each other again. SH_

Thursday, as planned, landed them in a café, where John ate a sandwich as delicately as he could while Sherlock sat across from him. Talk was exchanged about cases, and Sherlock regaled him on some of his most interesting ones. Despite the chaos of the lunch rush around them, it was strangely intimate, and John had to remind himself constantly that it wasn’t a date. That he wasn’t John right now. That he was Jane.

“Harriet.”

Sherlock looked up at him as John dabbed at his mouth gently. Sherlock himself wasn’t eating, just sitting there and watching, sometimes texting on his phone.

“Harriet?” He parroted.

“Harry Watson?” John said, jogging the man’s memory. “Harry’s my sister. Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted. “Harry’s your sister.”

“Yep.” John said, grinning as Sherlock seemed to mentally berate himself.

“ _Sister_!” He eventually snarled. “There’s always something!”

John giggled then, loud and boisterous, and eventually composed himself and sipped some water. Eventually he looked at the man in front of him, and noted his peculiar reaction. 

“Something wrong?” John asked, causing Sherlock to blink.

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” He eventually responded. “It’s… fine…”

John’s brow furrowed, clearly not believing him, but the moment was ruined when Sherlock’s phone went off and he let out a heavy sigh.

“Lestrade.” He replied after a moment. “He’s working on a case and seems almost desperate for my input.”

“Cutting out early, then?” John remarked, as Sherlock looked up at him. Then the man smirked, and John didn’t feel right at all.

“You could come along.” He finally suggested, causing John’s eyebrows to rise in surprise. “You’re an army doctor, so you’ve seen a lot of violent deaths and treated horrific injuries. Obviously, you’re not sick of it, since you work at the mortuary and deal with it on a daily basis. And, I need an assistant. The man on forensics won’t work with me.”

The mere idea of working on a case with the man in front of him sent a thrilling chill down John’s spine. However, work was calling, and it wouldn’t do for him to go running about London when he had another four hours left on his shift. That, and he was in heels.

“I really need to get back to work.” John replied, disappointment in his voice. “It won’t do for me to cut out of work so early. I am fairly new, still. Plus, I’m in heels.”

Sherlock frowned, obviously put out, but it switched to a smirk soon enough as he rose and donned his coat and scarf.

“Next time, then.”

Then the man left in a whirlwind, and left John to pay the bill.

He got a text from him almost an hour later, well before the victim was wheeled in.

_Jilted lover. Obvious. Too dull for a first case. SH_

If John didn’t know any better, he would say that the man was trying to flirt with him. Even if he was, it wouldn’t be on. Sherlock Holmes, if he was really trying, was trying to woo Jane, not John. If John removed all the makeup, the wig, the inserts, the lingerie, everything that made him Jane, Sherlock wouldn’t be interested.

He didn’t know why, but those thoughts burned unpleasantly in his gut, and he was glad when the victim provided a distraction.

-

A few weeks into their acquaintance, a problem arose. Well, a couple did, anyway. One, Molly seemed rather peeved at him. Their usual friendly banter was cut away and left with forced pleasantness. John didn’t think it helped matters when Sherlock, the man Molly still pined over, continued to turn to John for help and left Molly as the minor assistant. Sure, they’d have lunch, and it seemed to go back to normal, but then Sherlock would storm in and demand John’s medical advice, and it was back to square one. 

The next problem was, well, singular and more problematic.

It was a Saturday, and John didn’t have work, so he went out, purely as John, and did his weekly shopping. He felt almost embarrassed when he went to the self check-out with beans, milk, volumizing mascara and more long-lasting foundation. It was something he felt that he would never get used to, especially when it was all for him. 

It was when he was finally leaving the store that he got the text. Cursing and juggling his cane, groceries, and phone, he felt his stomach plummet slightly when he read it.

 _Where are you? SH_

At first, John thought that Sherlock was in his flat, but that would be impossible. The man didn’t know where he lived, and even if he did, he’d have to get past the buzzer and pick the locks. There was no way Sherlock could be waiting for him.

_At your flat. Been waiting fifteen minutes. SH_

Apparently, Sherlock could do the impossible. So, John did the most logical thing he could do: He panicked.

He couldn’t go to his flat, his _own_ flat, like this. Sherlock was waiting for him. Was waiting for _Jane_. Everything that he needed to look like Jane, his makeup, his wig, his special lingerie, was all in his room. He couldn’t access his room from outside and not rise Sherlock’s suspicions. 

He was royally, totally fucked.

“Doctor Watson?”

John whirled around and saw a woman standing behind him. She looked quite attractive, but it was a little dampened when she was clearly nose deep in her phone.

“I work for Mr. Holmes, and he sent me to get you.” She answered, and John just became more confused. “If you would please follow me.”

Warily, John complied, following the woman around the corner and into a quiet, upscale café. She didn’t stop for anyone, and lead John straight into the women’s restroom. He hesitated, wary of entering such a place, but the woman just looked back at him and he swallowed down his nerves. 

It was there that he saw a couple of bags and a familiar blonde wig sitting on the bench.

“He did this?” John enquired, looking at the woman. 

“He was aware of his brother heading for your flat, and knew that you weren’t there.” She explained. “We were asked to gather the correct supplies. You should have enough time to get ready.”

John’s lips thinned. “What does he want in return?”

“You will owe him a favour.” She remarked. “He also wants me to tell you to invest in better clothes. Especially the wig.”

John felt his face heat and he eventually sighed, typing off a text on his phone and sending it off.

_Out shopping. Should’ve called ahead. Be back in a bit._

“Can you give me twenty minutes?” John asked.

“Is that really all you need?” She asked, sounding genuinely curious as he set his groceries down and peered through the bags.

“Roughly.” John replied. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotten very good at this.”

She merely grinned. “Take your time.” She remarked. “Use one of the stalls. I’ll keep watch.”

So John took one of the bags and rushed into a stall, stripping down and quickly slipping himself into the undergarments, hastily throwing on the turtleneck and jeans, and adjusting himself accordingly. He decided to leave his boots on, and quickly made sure all of his change, his wallet, and his flat key were in his new jeans, and he rushed back out, donning enough makeup to hide some of the obvious signs, but not enough to make it seem like he was impressing someone. As he did this, he fought the urge to look at the woman. It was weird, doing all this in front of someone, especially her. 

Eventually, he was done, and he made sure that his wig was secure and didn’t look like it was just thrown on.

“We’ll deliver your clothes to your flat later on, Doctor Watson.” She said. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”

“Thank you.” John said. “Really, thank you. Just… don’t send pictures to your boss or anything like that, okay?”

“Noted.” She said, grinning.

“You already did, didn’t you?”

“You really need to shut your blinds.”

When all was said and done, John gathered his groceries and continued the trek to his flat, no longer panicking about what Sherlock was going to see when he got there. 

Said man was standing in front of the door, and he glared at John when he arrived.

“You said a bit.” He snapped.

“Well, next time, phone ahead!” John snapped back. “Honestly, I was in the middle of the shop!”

Sherlock merely scoffed, standing by and watching as John fumbled with his bags, digging out his key.

“Oh please, don’t mind me…” John grumbled as he finally opened the door. He looked back at Sherlock. “Well? Do you want to come in? Or are you going to stand there and pout like a five-year-old?”

Sherlock’s glare strengthened as he stomped around him. “I do not pout.”

“Obviously, you do.” John said, shutting his door and limping into the kitchen, where he set his groceries on the counter and began putting them away. He looked across the apartment to see Sherlock sitting at his desk, fingers drumming and feet bouncing.

“Any particular reason why you’re feet are going a mile a minute?” John enquired. 

“I’m waiting for you to finish up.” Sherlock stated.

“Finish up?” John asked. “Why? You want some tea or something?”

“No.” The man responded. “There’s been a murder. I was called to the crime scene, and I’d like for you to come along.”

John fought a sigh. “You waited for almost half an hour just for that?” He asked. “Are you sure they waited for you?”

“No, Lestrade called five minutes before you arrived.” Sherlock said, causing John to fumble. 

“If he only called five minutes ago,” John asked slowly. “Why were you waiting outside my flat for so long?”

“I was anticipating his call.” Sherlock replied fairly quickly. “I wanted to make sure we were prepared.”

“You’re not going to let me refuse accompanying you, are you?” John asked, bemused despite himself.

The man snorted, smirking at John, and John’s heart did not leap at the sight. “Please, Jane.” He said. “Why on earth would you refuse?”

So John just sighed. “Just let me finish putting these away.” He said. “Don’t want them to spoil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wants to know: Sherlock thinks "Jane" is trans. That's why he doesn't outright ask her about her really being a man. He's a prick, but I would think even Sherlock can tell when certain things are really not good.

**Author's Note:**

> Deeeerp.


End file.
